Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

by Weis Margaret

  “No accounting for taste,” said Maelstrom, and he gave Raistlin a cuff on the head that knocked him sideways. “Answer the boss’s questions. He don’t take kindly to prevaricators.”

  Talent waited for Raistlin’s ears to quit ringing from the blow; then he said, “Want to try again? Why did you go to the Hair of the Troll?”

  “I admit, I am interested in working for Hidden Light,” said Raistlin, licking blood from a split lip.

  “A wizard who wears the black robes wants to help in the fight against Takhisis. Why should we trust you?”

  “Because I wear the black robes,” said Raistlin.

  Talent regarded him thoughtfully. “You might want to explain yourself.”

  “If Takhisis wins this war and frees herself from the Abyss, she will be the master and I will be her slave. I will not be a slave. I much prefer to be the master.”

  “At least you are honest,” said Talent.

  “I see no reason to lie,” Raistlin said, shrugging as well as his bound arms would permit. “I am not ashamed of wearing the black robes. Nor am I ashamed of my ambition. You and I fight the battle against Takhisis for different reasons, sir, or at least so I presume. You fight for the good of mankind. I fight for the good of myself. The point is: we both fight.”

  Talent shook his head in wonderment. “I’ve met all manner of men and women, Majere, but never anyone quite like you. I’m not certain whether I should embrace you or slit your throat.”

  “I know what I’d do,” muttered Maelstrom, fingering a large knife he wore on his belt.

  “I’m sure you will understand if we ask you to prove yourself,” said Talent, briskly getting down to business. “I have a job for you, one for which you are uniquely qualified. I hear that Kitiara uth Matar, known as the Blue Lady, is your sister.”

  “She is my half sister,” said Raistlin. “Why?”

  “Because the Blue Lady is plotting something, and I need to know what,” said Talent.

  “It has been years since I have seen Kitiara, but from what I hear, she is commander of the Blue Dragonarmy, an army that is currently ravaging Solamnia, making hash of the Solamnic Knights. What she is plotting is undoubtedly the demise of the Knighthood.”

  “You might want to speak of the Solamnic Knights with more respect,” Talent said.

  Raistlin gave a half smile. “I thought I detected a faint Solamnic accent. Don’t tell me, sir. I can guess your story. You were an impoverished knight, reduced to selling his sword. You sold it to the wrong people, briefly walked the side of Darkness, had a change of heart, and now you’re on the side of Light. Am I right?”

  “I didn’t have a change of heart,” said Talent quietly. “I had a good friend who changed it for me. He saved me from myself. But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about a job. As it happens, Kitiara is not busy pursuing the war in Solamnia. She has left the war to her commanders. No one has seen her on the battlefield in weeks.”

  “Perhaps she was wounded,” Raistlin suggested. “Perhaps she is dead.”

  “We would have heard. What we do hear is that she is working on some secret project. We want to know what this project is and, if possible, prevent its completion.”

  “And since I am her brother, you expect her to tell me everything. Unfortunately, I do not know where Kit is.”

  “Most fortunately, we do,” said Talent. “You’ve heard of the death knight Lord Soth?”

  “Yes,” said Raistlin warily.

  “Soth is alive—so to speak. The death knight resides in an accursed castle known as Dargaard Keep. And your sister, Kitiara, is with him.”

  Raistlin stared, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I have never been more so. The entry of the dragons of Light into the war caught Takhisis unprepared. She now fears she might lose. Kitiara is in Dargaard Keep with Lord Soth, and we believe they are plotting something to crush out this spark of hope. I want to know what they are plotting. I want you to find out and come back to tell me.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I don’t recall giving you a choice,” said Talent, smoothing his mustache. “You came to me, Majere. And now you know too much about us. Either you agree to travel to Dargaard Keep, or your bones will be Hiddukel’s dinner this night. Hiddukel the dog,” Talent added by way of clarification, petting the mastiff’s head, “not the god.”

  Raistlin looked at the mastiff. He glanced back over his shoulder at Maelstrom. Then he gave a slight shrug. “I will need a day or two to put my affairs in order and devise some excuse for my absence. There are those who would find my sudden disappearance suspicious.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” said Talent. He stood up from the chair. The dogs, who had been lying at his side, jumped to their feet. “Maelstrom will see to it you get home safely. You won’t mind being blindfolded, I hope.”

  “It will be better than being drugged,” said Raistlin wryly.

  Maelstrom drew his knife and cut the ropes that bound Raistlin’s hands and feet.

  “One thing I meant to ask,” said Talent. “The gate guards have been told to watch for a man named Berem who has a green gemstone embedded in his chest. Sounds like the kind of man a wizard might know. You don’t happen to, do you? Or know anything about him?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Raistlin, his face a blank mask.

  He stood up stiffly, rubbing his wrists. His lip was starting to swell, a bruise was turning the golden skin of his face an unsightly green color.

  Maelstrom brought out a strip of black cloth. Talent held up his hand, indicating he should wait.

  “Then there’s this magical artifact the guards are searching for. A dragon globe or some such thing.”

  “Dragon orb,” said Raistlin.

  “You have heard of it?” Talent affected surprise.

  “I would be a poor excuse for a student of magic if I had not,” said Raistlin.

  “You don’t know where it is, do you?”

  The young wizard’s strange eyes glinted. “Believe me, sir, when I tell you that you would not want me to find it.” He wiped blood from his lip.

  Talent eyed him, then shrugged. “Let Mari know when you’re leaving for Dargaard Keep,” he said. Whistling to the dogs, he turned to go.

  “One moment,” said Raistlin. “I have a question for you. How did you corrupt the kender?”

  “Corrupt?” Talent repeated angrily. “What do you mean? I didn’t corrupt Mari.”

  “You made her a cold-blooded killer. What do you call that if not corruption?”

  “I did not corrupt her,” Talent reiterated. “I don’t know Mari’s story. She never talks about it. And just to be clear, I never sent her to murder the Adjudicator. She undertook to kill him herself. I didn’t know anything about the murder until she’d done it, and then I was appalled.”

  Raistlin frowned, dubious.

  “I swear by Kiri-Jolith,” said Talent earnestly, “that if I had known what Mari meant to do, I would have chained her up in the cellar. She put all of us in danger.” He paused, then added, “Thank you for helping her, by the way, Majere. Mari means a lot to us. The evil in the world has destroyed much that was beautiful, innocent. Take you, for example. I must assume that before you turned to evil, you were once a happy, carefree child—”

  “You would assume wrong,” sharply interjected Raistlin. “Am I free to go?”

  Talent nodded. Maelstrom tied the blindfold around the wizard’s eyes, then pulled his cowl over his face and guided him out of the subterranean chamber.

  After they’d gone, one of the dogs gave a sudden shudder, causing her skin to twitch. She shook herself all over.

  “I know, girl,” said Talent, placing his hand soothingly on the mastiff’s head. “He gives me the creeps too.”

  12

  A Meeting With Ariakas. Another Job Offer.

  15th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  he morning after his meeting with
Talent, Raistlin was working in the laboratory in the Tower, mixing up the last of the potions for Snaggle. He had already purchased his dagger. He needed only enough more steel to pay for his room at the inn. He would not go to Kitiara beholden to her. More importantly, he would not spy on her and then take her charity.

  “You would be proud of me, Sturm,” Raistlin remarked as he spooned a concoction meant to help ease sore throats into a jar. “It seems I do have some smattering of honor.”

  From downstairs came the sound of the front door opening and closing and light footsteps ascending the stairs at a run. Raistlin did not halt in his work. Even without the faint scent of gardenia, he would have known his visitor was Iolanthe. No one else came near the Tower, rumor having gone around the city that it was haunted by the ghosts of the dead Black Robes. “Raistlin?” Iolanthe shouted.

  “In here,” he called.

  Iolanthe entered the room. She was breathing hard from her exertions. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes bright and eager.

  “Drop what you are doing,” she said. “Ariakas wants to meet with you.”

  “Meet with me?” Raistlin asked, his eyes on his task.

  “Yes, you! Who else would I be talking about? He wants to talk to you now! Put that down,” Iolanthe said, snatching the spoon from his hand. “He does not like to be kept waiting.”

  Raistlin’s first alarmed thought was that Ariakas had somehow discovered his involvement with Hidden Light. But, he reasoned, if that were the case, Ariakas would have sent draconians after him, not his mistress.

  “What does he want with me?”

  “Ask him yourself,” said Iolanthe.

  Raistlin placed the stopper in the jar.

  “I will go, but I cannot leave this yet.” He bent over a small kettle he had placed upon the cooktop. “It must come to a rolling boil.”

  Iolanthe peered into the kettle and wrinkled her nose. “Ugh.

  What is it?”

  “An experiment,” said Raistlin.

  Mindful of the adage that a watched pot never boils, he turned to another task, carefully packing the jar of sore throat medicine in a crate along with several other potions and ointments he had readied to sell. Iolanthe watched him, tapping her foot and drumming her fingers on her arms, fuming with impatience.

  “Your pot is boiling,” she said.

  Raistlin took hold of the handle with a cloth and removed the pot from the fire. Setting it down on the counter, he took off the apron he had worn to protect his robes.

  “Is that all? What happens now?” Iolanthe asked, regarding the concoction with distaste.

  “It must ferment,” said Raistlin, folding the apron neatly. “On the Night of the Eye, I will—”

  “Night of the Eye! Oh, yes!” Iolanthe said, slapping her forehead. “What a ninny I am. That’s coming up, isn’t it? Are you traveling to the celebration at the Tower in Wayreth?”

  “No, I plan to remain here and work on my experiments,” said Raistlin. “What about you?”

  “We’ll talk about it on the way to the Emperor.” She grabbed his hand and hustled him down the stairs and out the door.

  “Why aren’t you going to Wayreth?” she asked.

  He glanced at her sharply. “Why aren’t you?”

  Iolanthe laughed. “Because I will have a better time in Neraka. I know, it’s hard to believe. But Talent always throws a huge party in the Broken Shield on the Night of the Eye and there’s another party at the Hairy Troll. The ale is free. Everyone gets drunk … or rather they get drunker. People light bonfires in the streets and everyone dresses up like wizards and pretends to cast magic spells. It’s the only fun anyone ever has in this city.”

  “I wouldn’t think the Nightlord would approve,” said Raistlin.

  “Oh, he doesn’t. And that’s half the fun. Every year, the Nightlord issues an edict against the celebration and threatens to send out soldiers to shut the taverns down. But since all the soldiers will be attending the party, his threats never amount to anything.”

  She smiled coyly at him. “You didn’t answer my question. Why aren’t you going to the Tower?”

  “I would not be welcome. I did not ask the Conclave for permission to change my allegiance from Red to Black.”

  “Well, that was stupid,” said Iolanthe bluntly. “You seem to go out of your way to make enemies. All you would have had to do was go before the Conclave and explain your reasons and ask for their blessing. It is a mere formality. Why forgo it?”

  “Because I do not like asking anyone for anything,” said Raistlin.

  “And so you throw away all the advantages you could enjoy by keeping in good graces with your fellow wizards, not to mention putting your life at risk. What for? What do you gain?”

  “My freedom,” said Raistlin.

  Iolanthe rolled her eyes. “Freedom to end up dead. I swear by the three moons, I do not understand you, Raistlin Majere.”

  Raistlin wasn’t sure he understood himself. Even as he shrugged off the thought of going to the Tower of Wayreth for the Night of the Eye celebration, he felt a pang of regret that he would not be there. He had never attended one of the celebrations; after taking his Test, he didn’t have the means of traveling to the Tower. But he knew what happened, and he had often longed to participate.

  The Night of the Eye: A night when all three moons of magic came into alignment to form an “eye” in the sky. The silver moon was the white of the eye, the red was the iris, the black the pupil. On that night, wizardly powers were at their height. Mages from all over Ansalon traveled to the Tower in Wayreth to make use of the magical power that would sparkle in the air like moonbeams. They would use the power to craft magical artifacts or imbue them with magic, record spells, concoct potions, summon demons from the nether planes. Wondrous magicks would be performed that night, and he would miss it.

  He shrugged it off. He’d made his decision, and he did not regret it. He’d stay here and watch over his own wondrous magicks.

  That was, if Ariakas didn’t have other plans for him.

  Iolanthe did not take Raistlin to the Red Mansion, as he had expected. Ariakas was in his headquarters in the camp of the Red Dragonarmy, a spare, squat building where he could nail his maps to the wall, engage in swordplay with his soldiers if he felt like it, and speak his mind without fear that his words were going to be carried straight to the Nightlord.

  Two enormous, armor-clad ogres, the largest ogres Raistlin had ever seen, stood guard at the door to Ariakas’s office. Raistlin was not one to be impressed, but the thought came to him that their armor alone probably weighed twice as much as he did. The ogres knew and obviously admired Iolanthe, for their hairy faces split into smiles when they saw her. They were still professional in their treatment of her, asking her to remove any pouches she was wearing.

  Iolanthe stated that she wasn’t wearing any pouches, as they well knew. She then raised her arms, inviting them to search her body for weapons.

  “Which of you won the coin toss today?” she asked teasingly.

  One of the ogres grinned, then ran his hands over her. The ogre was obviously enjoying his task, but Raistlin noted that the ogre was nevertheless professional and thorough. The bodyguard was well aware of the terrible fate that would befall him if someone pulled a knife on his commander.

  The ogre cleared Iolanthe and turned to Raistlin. Iolanthe had warned him in advance that no wizard was allowed to bring any sort of spell component or magical staff into the room, and he had left his pouches and staff back in the Tower. The pouch containing the marbles and the dragon orb had long before been safely secreted in a bag of weevil-infested flour.

  The ogres searched him and, finding nothing, told him he could enter.

  Iolanthe ushered him through the door, but she did not go in herself. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll be in the next room, eavesdropping.” He had the feeling she wasn’t kidding.

  Raistlin entered a small, sparsely furnished room. Maps adorned t
he wall. A window looked out onto a courtyard, where draconian troops were practicing maneuvers.

  Ariakas was much less formally dressed than when Raistlin had encountered him in the palace. The day was warm with a hint of spring in the air that made it almost breathable. Ariakas had taken off his cape and tossed it on a chair. He wore a leather vest of fine quality. He smelled of leather and sweat, and Raistlin was again reminded unpleasantly of Caramon.

  The Emperor was engaged in reading dispatches, and he gave no sign that he was even aware Raistlin was in the room. He did not offer him a chair. Raistlin stood, waiting, his hands folded in the sleeves of his robes, until the great man should deign to notice him.

  At last, Ariakas put down the dispatch. “Sit.” He indicated a chair near his desk.

  Raistlin obeyed. He said nothing, but waited in silence to hear why he had been summoned. He was certain it would be for some insignificant, boring assignment, and he was already preparing to turn it down.

  Ariakas stared at him rudely a moment then said, “Damn, but you’re ugly Iolanthe tells me your skin disease is the result of your Test.”

  Raistlin stiffened in anger. He made no response beyond a cold nod, or so he thought. Apparently he’d been wrong, for Ariakas grinned.

  “Ah, now I see your sister in you. That glint in your eyes. I’ve seen it in hers, and I know what it means: you’d just as soon stick a knife in my gut as not. Or in your case, you’d roast me with a fireball.”

  Raistlin kept silent.

  “Speaking of your sister and knives,” Ariakas said amiably, continuing his thought. “I want you to do a job for me. Kitiara is up to something, along with that death knight of hers, and I want to know what.”

  Raistlin was startled. Talent Orren had used almost those very same words in regard to Kit. He had not put much stock in Orren’s claim that Kit was working on some secret assignment. After Ariakas mentioned it, he began to think that perhaps there was something to it and wondered what his sister was plotting.